Yesterday evening, I received an email from the office that cinnamon rolls would be served this morning at 9 am. I wanted to mark it as unread to make SURE that I didn’t miss out on this most cherished of events. As anyone who knows me, it doesn’t take much to make me content or overjoyed. I often repeat the old saying, it’s the little things in life.

Examples of such little things would include a cup of coffee; a student who suddenly “gets it”; a student who laughs at my stupid jokes; when I drive through the city without hitting a single moto . . .  I could go on.

So, the simple cinnamon roll was the thing that gave me renewed joy throughout the evening. I’m quite sure that I had some wonderful dreams throughout the night, as well. I just can’t PROVE it, though, because I never can remember my dreams. Unless they involve falling off a cliff into a pool of piranhas or something. On the way to school I was utterly oblivious to the wonderful reflex-challenging moto drivers cutting in front of me at every opportunity. Again, simply because of my focus on those gooey delights.

And so the day began with our regular class devotional time, which was followed by a long speech by myself to the class on what we would be doing for the day. Essentially, we would be doing some semi-final preparations for our BIG Bible play. We had boxes to spray paint and props to design. We had boxes of costumes to pilfer through and walls to paint.

Before I knew what was happening, I was running around like a chicken that wished its head would get chopped off. Some of the more mature students were outside by themselves spray painting. Some of the boys were making props in the classroom, while others were lining up Zenya bottles along the walls. Still others were cleverly acting like they were doing something, when I know full well they were not. I opted for the old, Don’t ask, Don’t tell policy.

At some unknown point during this flurry of activity, I swear that I had seen a blur (resembling my wife) go by and set 2 cinnamon rolls on my desk.

My fingers hurt from typing right now, and I sense that whatever readers have made it this far, are about to check out – so I’ll try to bring this to a close.

At some point after lunch, approaching 1 pm, I joined my wife for coffee and cinnamon rolls in the quiet, sanctuary known as the staff lounge. Lesley Weiss was there, too. She was lying down on the sofa and appeared to be near comatose. “How ya doin’ Lesley?”

She mustered her strength to turn her head, and she raised her limp hand a few inches from the floor as she smiled just a bit. Not sure if she even said anything. We were both in our happy places.

It’s the little things in life.

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